Beginnings
by rosabelle317
Summary: Missing scenes from season one. Some Sharon and Rusty, some Sharon and team.


**Notes: **I wrote a similar story from Rusty's POV last year, but I've been watching a lot of season one episodes lately and wanted to tell it from Sharon's POV. There'll be at least two more stories, one where Sharon's with Julio and Amy, and one where she's with Tao. There might be another one with her and Provenza, but I'm not sure yet. (I will also write an actual plotted story again someday. I'm working on it.)

**Beginnings**

**Part I: Rusty**

The door slammed.

The sound made Sharon cringe, but the silence that followed was worse.

In retrospect, it was obvious what she'd done wrong. She would fix that, if she could.

First, she straightened what little there was to straighten in the living room. She fiddled with the throw pillows until they were fluffed to her liking and lay at equal heights. She trimmed the dead leaves from the bouquets sitting on top of the sideboard in the dining room. FID had given her a warmer farewell than Major Crimes had a welcome, but that was what it was. She hadn't expected differently.

She finished the wine. She drank it standing in the kitchen, then rinsed the glass. When she saw that the dishwasher was full of clean dishes, she emptied it. The wine glass went into the top rack, the bowl and spoon leftover from breakfast into the bottom.

At a loss for other things to tidy up, and with no sound coming from the bathroom, she went to change. She got as far as unhooking her bra before thought overrode habit and she remembered the boy in her bathroom.

Right.

Sighing, Sharon took the most comfortable cotton workout bra from her underwear drawer. She pulled on the same shirt she'd worn all day, but traded the blazer for her softest cardigan and finished with a pair of black jersey pants more breathable than her work slacks, as though physical comfort now could distract her from how _un_comfortable it was to have suddenly acquired a new housemate.

It wasn't Rusty himself. She'd spoken with Cynthia, his social worker, who'd confirmed for her what Sharon had instinctively felt: he wasn't a dangerous young man. There was one complaint about stealing from a former foster family, but considering that the allegation had come three months after Rusty had disappeared from their household, Sharon rather suspected it was meant to distract from the fact that they hadn't bothered to report him missing.

Whatever issues Rusty might have, Sharon wasn't afraid that he would harm her.

Her discomfort wasn't about that. It was rooted in something else.

Still. She'd volunteered for the job of housing Rusty, and she intended to do just that.

Sharon twisted her wrist, giving her watch a quick glance as she left her room. It was almost seven, past the time she usually started dinner. Rusty had been holed up in the bathroom for almost twenty minutes.

When she rapped lightly on the door, there was no answer.

"Rusty?"

Silence.

"Open the door, please. I want to talk to you." When there was no response to _that_, either, she added more sternly, "Now, please."

At last, a reluctant response. "It's open."

She tested the handle. Sure enough, it turned smoothly when she pushed down, and the door opened to reveal Rusty carefully balanced on the edge of the tub. He sat with one foot inside of it and his left leg, the one with the dozen stitches in the calf, stretched straight out in front of him on the ceramic ledge.

"Are you in pain?"

He didn't answer, and the surly expression on his face remained unchanged.

Buzz had reported that Rusty hadn't torn his stitches during the altercation between them and Detective Sanchez, and added that the doctor seemed pleased with how the wound was healing up, but... "If you're hurting, I can—"

"I'm not," he cut her off. "Are you here for a reason, or what?"

"Yes," she said quietly. She tried to say it looking him in the eye, but he crossed his arms and stared intently at one of her bath candles, refusing to make eye contact. "I wanted to apologize."

His head turned towards her, but his eyes remained fixed stubbornly where they were.

"I misled you about how far along I'd gotten in the search for your mother, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

"Call it whatever you want," he said. "You lied."

Sharon winced, but he wasn't wrong. "It won't happen again."

"Sure it won't." That stung, but she couldn't blame him.

Their eyes met then and he stared at her, his face set, his eyes rimmed with red but defiant, then he scoffed and looked away. "I can sue you if you don't feed me."

"I..." The sudden change of subject threw her. Sharon cleared her throat. "I usually eat around now. Are you hungry?"

"I want a hamburger."

"I'm afraid I don't have any of those," she said. "How do you feel about chicken?"

"Chicken's whatever."

She thought that was a yes. Unless it was a no.

"Chicken, then," she said, and he didn't raise any objections. "I'll get it started. You can clean up in here if you'd like, or..." She trailed off, her head tilting as she gave him a more thorough look. "You were wearing those same clothes yesterday. Would you like to shower?"

Where had he spent the night?

When Rusty's face flushed red and he lowered his head, Sharon wished she'd phrased that more sensitively. Her own children had been mortified enough about personal hygiene, and they hadn't been perfect strangers.

"I'm not supposed to shower with the stitches," Rusty said defensively.

Sharon frowned. He'd had the stitches put in almost a week ago. Had no one told him...? "You shouldn't bathe until they come out, but it's safe to shower after the first day."

His head whipped back up. "Are you sure?"

"Very." She'd been on the planet, not to mention the force, long enough to have collected a handful of injuries on her own. "You'd like to, then."

He nodded once, but looked like he'd like to another dozen times.

"Whoever told you not to was probably worried about you slipping with crutches." A concern she suddenly found herself sharing. "Do you think you can kneel down all right? Or if you'd rather, we'll tape a trash bag around your leg to keep it dry and you take a bath."

"Shower's fine."

"All right," she said. "Use whatever you'd like. The only shampoo is lavender, but we can get you something different tomorrow."

"I'm not gonna be here long enough for that." But she saw his lower lip puff out before he sucked it back into place. He pointed to the towel stand on her right. "I use those?"

She nodded. "When you're done, just hang it up on one of the empty hooks. Oh—do you have something to change into afterwards?"

"In here." He pointed to the backpack at his feet.

"Are they clean?"

His face reddened again, and Sharon regretted the words as soon as they were out. She was usually better than this. More careful.

"I do laundry," Rusty informed her. "I've just been a little busy, helping you catch a serial killer and all."

"Well." At a loss, she reached for the door handle. "I'll let you shower."

She'd almost pulled it closed when he called after her. "Wait."

* * *

The laundry room was more of a closet, really. The washer and dryer stacked on top of each other on one side of the narrow space. On the opposite wall, there was a shelf for her detergent and dryer sheets with a small hamper underneath. She kept another for clothes in her room, but she didn't like to leave damp towels lying around the bathroom and kitchen.

Rusty maneuvered his way inside. Sharon stood out in the hall and watched as he took the detergent and carefully measured enough for a small load. She eyed the backpack resting at his feet. It was large for what it was, but clothes took up space.

He was supposed to have more things. She would call Cynthia again in the morning.

As he emptied his backpack, she counted two tank tops, one pair of jeans, and one pair of shorts. Nothing with sleeves. One ragged sweatshirt, one spare pair of underwear. No socks.

Everything smelled faintly of mildew.

Laundromats never got anything quite dry.

She began composing a shopping list in her head. She didn't know how long he'd be staying with her. Maybe indefinitely, maybe only a few weeks but when he left he'd be going _somewhere_ and he needed clothes for when he got there. Things that fit properly and that he hadn't used to advertise himself for sale. At least a week's worth of everything, including socks and underwear. Plus some longer sleeves for the winter, no matter how far off that seemed in the middle of August. New shoes. Pajamas.

Once he got the washer started, Rusty leaned his crutches against the shelf. He eased down to sit on the floor, settling himself with his back to the wall and his legs sticking straight out in front of him. His feet came just past the edge of the doorframe.

Sharon watched him, thinking as he pulled his backpack onto his lap.

"You know... we could wash that too," she said. "It looks sturdy enough."

He responded by sliding both arms through the straps and holding the pack securely against his chest, his chin lowered defensively and his narrow-eyed expression almost feral.

"But we don't have to do that tonight," Sharon decided.

He just hugged the pack all the more securely.

There was a story there, clearly. She wondered what else he kept in there.

"All right," she said. "Dinner is the next order of business."

He shook his head.

"I thought you were hungry."

His eyes flicked towards the washing machine. "I'll eat in the morning."

"Would you rather wait until your laundry's done?"

After a long pause, he nodded.

She tried not to sigh. It would be almost nine by the time they ate, then, because he still needed to shower. "Okay," she said, because clearly he was determined to sit there and babysit the washing machine. "We'll wait."

"Maybe while we wait, you could try _looking for my mother_."

"About that," Sharon said. She stared down at him, and he glared right back at her. "It would be a great help if I had a place to start looking."

"If I knew where she was, I wouldn't need _you_ to find her for me."

"Was there ever a place your mother mentioned? Somewhere she liked to go?"

He looked away first, then grudgingly answered. "We lived in San Diego awhile. She liked it there. And she was always talking about Vegas. Gary—that's her boyfriend, but I guess you'd only know that if you'd bothered to read her file—he said he knew how to win the jackpot."

"San Diego and Las Vegas," Sharon repeated. She thought of the husband she hadn't heard from in a year, and wondered if he was at this moment sitting next to Rusty's mother at the slot machines. "Okay. That helps."

"How long is this going to take you?" he demanded. Hope softened his features, even as she watched him struggle to remain deeply suspicious. "Like—if you started right now?"

"That all depends," she said. "It could be days. A couple of weeks. Maybe longer, if—but I _will_ find her," she said, when his face fell.

"I need to tell her—" Rusty's lip quivered. He drew it between his teeth. "I have to apologize to her."

Sharon couldn't imagine what on earth for.

"So you just have to find her, okay?"

Rusty reached out and hooked the toes of his good foot beneath the door, dragging it shut and folding up his legs as he went. Sharon let him. She didn't particularly want to be glared at for the next hour and a half, and what was he going to do in there, tunnel his way out through the floor? Eat the dryer sheets?

She was certain he just didn't want her to see him tear up.

Something about the way he tried to hide it just accented how vulnerable he really was, leaving her keenly aware that he was just a boy who wanted his mother.

Sharon rubbed her forehead, staring hard at the closed door.

When no sound came from within, she went to start dinner. What had they agreed on, chicken? She thought so. She'd cooked it the night before. It wasn't fancy, but the first day on the job had worn her out. She'd just roasted the chicken with carrots and onions, fixed a baked potato and salad to go with it, and told herself she'd celebrate the promotion when the case was closed and everything was official.

She opened the freezer door too, looking for something to serve as a side dish. Her eyes landed on a pan of lasagna instead, and she hesitated. She'd made two of them the weekend before last. One had fed her for a week. She was still a little sick of it, but if it was beef that he wanted... She remembered teenagers well enough not to worry about how much food would need to be eaten.

A moment later, she found herself knocking on the laundry room door. "Are you allergic to anything?"

"No."

"It's not hamburgers, but I've got lasagna." She waited for a response. "Chicken or lasagna. It's up to you."

Silence.

"If you have no preference, I'm picking the lasagna."

"Fine. Whatever."

* * *

Eventually, they ate.

Sharon tried not to stare, but her eyes kept finding their way back to the young man sitting across from him. He wore the same plaid shirt, buttoned up over one of the freshly washed tank tops and he'd put on the clean pair of jeans. His bangs were wet and plastered to his forehead and he smelled like he'd used the entire bottle of shampoo, but clean clothes and a shower had improved his mood.

Or maybe it was the food that did it. He was on his third helping of lasagna and showing no sign of slowing down. Sharon watched in mild dismay.

He was short for his age. Admittedly, her own son was a small giant, but Sharon didn't imagine Rusty had been eating regular meals for a long time.

"Go ahead," she said, when his eyes darted back to the pan sitting between them. "Eat if you're hungry."

He carved out a fourth piece, no smaller than the other three.

"If you'd like, we can see about making another this weekend."

"That's _days_ from now," he said. "I might not even be here."

"If you are, then."

He gave her a sullen look, but shrugged. "Can you put more cheese on it next time?"

It was the most conciliatory thing he'd said all evening. "I suppose."

Mollified, he went back to eating. His backpack rested on the seat beside him and though it was hard to tell, she thought he kept one hand resting on it when he didn't need both to eat.

Sharon hesitated when he cleaned his plate yet again. "There's some ice cream in the freezer."

It wasn't a glare he gave her this time. "What kind?"

"There's a few different kinds. Choose whichever one you'd like. I'll clean up." She stood. "Don't worry if it's open. I don't eat out of the carton."

"That's just sad," he informed her. "And I'm not real worried about germs."

Sharon pressed her lips into a thin line once his back was to her. DCFS and the court hadn't signed off on her guardianship yet. She wouldn't have access to his medical records until then. She knew some STI testing had been done. She didn't yet know which ones, or what the results were. There would be some tests that, even if negative, would have to be repeated.

To this day, her husband swore that he hadn't been intimate with anyone else until after they'd separated. Sharon wanted to believe him, even now. She'd still had herself tested when it had become clear she couldn't trust him. She remembered the experience being uncomfortable and frightening, and she'd been an adult who'd gone in of her own free will.

There was a knot in her throat as she watched Rusty teeter on his crutches as rifle through the freezer, weighing his choices.

They would cross that bridge when they came to it. Silently, she prayed that his life would be less complicated from now on, and then she began gathering up the dishes. There was nothing else she could do for him.

When she edged into the kitchen behind him with the rest of the lasagna, she saw he'd found the chocolate ice cream. She generally preferred the fruiter flavors herself, but every once in awhile she went for something richer.

"Spoons are in that drawer on your left," she said. "Bowls are in the cabinet."

Giving her an extremely pointed look, he found a spoon and hobbled his way back to the dining room. Sharon kept cleaning, every now and then turning to look at him. He'd inhaled the lasagna, but he was savoring the ice cream, eating it spoonful by spoonful with a look she couldn't read on his face.

Sharon glanced at the clock when she finished cleaning. A quarter to ten. They'd timed that well after all.

"When you're finished with that, I'll help you get settled in your room."

His mood shifted abruptly, the almost contentment vanishing as he stabbed his spoon back into the ice cream and shoved the carton away.

Sharon braced her forearms against the countertop, leaning into it as she studied him. "What?"

"It's _not_ my room," he informed her, viciously stressing each word. "I'm not sleeping in there."

"Ah," she said. "Well, where do you propose we put you, then?"

She watched his eyes dart around the room. "The couch," he said at last, pointing. "I'll sleep there."

She opened her mouth, intending to insist that he take the room. This time, she caught herself before she said the wrong thing. It was going to take her days to get used to having him here. How many weeks would it take him to get used to _being_ here?

She could ease him into this.

"We can talk about the room tomorrow," she relented. "I'll find you a blanket."

Sharon made the couch as comfortable as she could for him while he finished his ice cream. She spread a blanket down across the cushions to make it softer, then tucked a sheet securely around it. She pulled the edges tight and hoped it stayed in place. She followed that with another sheet and a blanket, stacking the throw pillows on the chairs and replacing them with the pillow from the guest room.

Afterwards, she surveyed the setup with some satisfaction. There. That was as much of a bed as she could make him.

Except...

"You'll need some pajamas." She half-turned towards the hall. She thought Ricky had left some things here... they would be too big, of course, but she thought there was a pair of sweatpants somewhere. Maybe a t-shirt.

"Don't bother with that." When she frowned at him, he shrugged. "Look, I've been sleeping in my clothes for, like, ever. It's fine."

Fine for tonight. Tomorrow, they were going shopping.

"All right, then," she said. "I'm going to get ready for bed myself. You can watch some TV if you'd like, but I'd appreciate it if you kept the volume low after ten thirty. I'll try to be quiet in the morning, but I get up at six thirty."

She waited, but he made no response.

Well. "Good night, then."

As expected, silence was the only answer he made.

From her room, he was nothing but noise. She changed into her nightgown listening to the TV flipping from one bad movie to another, and climbed into bed to the sound of the faucet running as Rusty got himself a drink of water.

Later, she lay in bed with the lights out, and she listened to the muffled voices coming from the TV and quiet thuds as he picked up the remote or looted through her DVD collection. Small sounds, quiet reminders that she wasn't alone in her house.

That was the real reason his presence here made her uncomfortable. It wasn't Rusty. The attitude didn't bother her. He was trying to advocate for himself the only way he knew how. But she'd never had to share this place with anyone. Her husband dropped by for a weekend every other year. Her children visited, but they didn't stay. She was always sorry to see them go, the kids far more than Jack, but no matter how much she wished that they lived closer, she liked that this was _her_ home. Her space to come home to at the end of the day.

There was a lot they'd have to get used to.


End file.
